


the Composition

by rrueplumet



Category: The Notebook (2004)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Inspired by the Notebook, Lesbian AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rrueplumet/pseuds/rrueplumet
Summary: Inspired by/In tribute to the Notebook.   A lesbian re-telling.     Two young women fall in love over and over again.





	the Composition

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a funny combination of this-is-clearly-the-Notebook and this-is-clearly-not-the-Notebook. Basically it's the Notebook, but the two characters are original. Inspired by their counterparts in the source material, certainly, but the story unfolds with enough difference that you won't feel like you're just reading the original story with the pronouns changed. Because that would be boring. 
> 
> You probably don't NEED to be familiar with the Notebook to read it, but the significance/implications of some lines and the ending probably mean more if you are. Either way, if this story calls to you then I hope you enjoy it! It was lots of fun to write and I'd love to hear back. 
> 
> Thanks again!

x 

 

The back of her head _throbbed_.   Smashing into the uplifted hood of the car was enough to leave a nice nick.   If she reached up, Sawyer wouldn’t be surprised to find a bit of blood in her dark hair. 

But she didn’t move.   She stood stock-still and stared.   Given the subject of her regard, it was no wonder a bit of blood escaped consideration;  Sawyer doubted anything would surprise her ever again. 

“ _Hi_.” 

It took Isabelle at least a minute to speak.   Sixty empty seconds where the two women just stared at one another.   Sixty seconds – on top of eight years.    Years so saturated with unspoken sentiment, they should have been dripping like fat clouds heavy with unshed rain.   But that tiny trickle was the only drop.

Eight years after thoroughly devastating Marilyn Sawyer, teaching her broken hearts were not exaggerations of romantic fables, Isabelle Kingsley sauntered back into her life with a simple _hi_. 

Sawyer didn’t reply.   Justifiably, she thought. 

 “Um,” Isabelle said.   She tugged at the strap of her purse.   “You, uh.   You look good.” 

Sawyer had spent the day labouring by herself under the brutal southern sun, dressed in torn denim and a battered black tank.   A drop of sweat trickled between her shoulder blades and she knew there was a sheen to her complexion.   Whatever she looked, it wasn’t good. 

Isabelle, on the other hand—

Before Sawyer could stumble into sentimental stupidity, she turned from the pale blue dress and peered instead at the silver sports car slanted across her property. 

Sawyer was a mechanic.   Cars were a dependable distraction.   Staring at the expensive hunk of machinery, Sawyer asked, “Are you lost or something?” 

She regretted her callous tone almost immediately, and maybe against her better judgement.   After all, _she_ didn’t run away all those years ago.   She was the one left aching and alone with the cancerous infection of a broken heart. 

She was nonetheless affected by Isabelle’s gasp, surprised hurt as if unexpectedly struck.

“Can I help you with something?”  Sawyer tried again.   Her voice was heavy with exhaustion.  From the heat, from her work.  From a barrage of memories that worsened when the breeze caught Isabelle’s perfume.   A lavender as sweet and pale as her dress, so fine and delicate and so painfully Isabelle.

She looked exactly the same in so many ways.   Though with her hair pinned so precisely and her fidgeting so anxious, she looked more like the shy teenager  Sawyer first met rather than the laughing and loving girl she came to know.

But then, that was eight years ago.   Sawyer didn’t know this woman anymore.   Even if every physical sense of her body insisted otherwise. 

 “Help me?  Um.  No, not really,” Isabelle said, her gaze lowered.   A single curl tumbled from her updo.    “I was just—” 

She lifted her gaze abruptly.  The sudden eye contact made Sawyer’s stomach flip, and the wrench in her hand slipped to the ground.   Isabelle glanced there. 

 “I thought I would stop by because—  Well, you see, I was just—  I thought I might—”

Sawyer had imagined this exact reunion a million times over.   When she was nineteen and desperate, it involved Isabelle racing back into her arms.   When she was twenty, all wrongs were forgiven with hopeful tears.    When she was twenty-one, long-languished in her bitterness, she sent a fraught Isabelle packing, lying that she never loved her just to prove a point. 

After that, it retreated to the back of her mind.  It only surfaced when Isabelle or her high-society family made the papers for one thing or another.    Then she imagined everything from a tearful reunion to hate-fucking where those pompous assholes could see. 

But for all her many varied imaginings, standing in mute bewilderment while Isabelle stumbled over nonsensical phrases was not ever one of them. 

“I’m sorry,” Isabelle said, but it was flustered and insincere.  Nervous.   Sawyer crinkled her brow at the sudden desperation in Isabelle’s voice.   “I’m so sorry.  I’m such an idiot, coming here like this out of the blue.   I shouldn’t have done it.   I’ll leave right now and I promise, I promise you won’t see me again.  I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”

Sincerity crept in.   It seemed to encompass more than the present. 

When Isabelle stepped back, it triggered an alarm in Sawyer’s head.   She shot awake and realized none of this was a sleeping fantasy.   Belle Kinsley was standing in front of her, muttering apologies, on the brink of tears, and smelling like lavender. 

Isabelle bumped into her vehicle like she forgot she parked there.   She jerked open the passenger door before realizing it was the wrong side.   In her frenzy, she left the door open and hurried to the driver’s door.   Halfway around the car, she remembered to close it and quickly returned. 

Instinct thrust Sawyer forward.   She reached the passenger-side door at the same time as Isabelle.   With a gentle press, they closed it together. 

Isabelle stood in front of her.   She didn’t turn around.   They both kept a hand on the closed door.  

Sawyer was always a little taller but Isabelle’s updo and heels gave her some height.   She was always so womanly as to be outlandish in posture.  Despite Sawyer’s inclination away from such performance, that femininity was a powerful allure. 

When Sawyer released a long-held breath, it blew apart a few of those pretty curls.    Isabelle trembled.   That tremor combined with their proximity almost propelled Sawyer to engage in her lusty younger self’s fantasy.  

And if Isabelle’s  gasps were any indication, she didn’t sound averse to being bent over her car.

Sawyer took a moment to gather herself.   It was difficult to concentrate with that perfume invading her senses, knocking down her walls of sensibility.  

She threw out her other hand and pressed it to the car, momentarily trapping Isabelle between her arms.   Isabelle went rigid.   Her head turned.  She  swallowed. 

“Right,” Sawyer finally said, unable to lift her voice above a husky drag.   Isabelle breathed out.   Sawyer straightened and let her free, and watched another gentle shiver as she said, “Get in the house.” 

 

x

 

To be fair, Isabelle had said more than just _hi_. 

Upon arrival, her first word was a tentative, “Marilyn?”

Isabelle knew Sawyer never liked her given name.   In fact, other than Sawyer’s late father, Isabelle was the only person to ever use it.  And that was only because Isabelle let Sawyer call her _Belle_.   As a shy and easily flustered youth, the pretty pet name made her squirm in discomfort.   Not even her fussiest aunts could call her that.   But she gave Sawyer the right almost immediately.

It never felt silly because Sawyer made her feel truly beautiful.  

Similarly, a sweet secret smile fell over Sawyer’s lips whenever Isabelle had whispered her Christian name in her ear.   A smile that always turned Isabelle inside-out, her heart beating right there on her chest for all to see. 

That smile was nowhere to be found today.    Hunkered over an old truck, Sawyer was hard at work and didn’t even look up when Isabelle pulled onto her property.   It was at the small utterance of her name that she reacted – smashing her head right into the hood of the truck.

Clutching her purse to her chest, Isabelle shuffled behind Sawyer to the main house.   Sawyer held a hand to the back of her head and Isabelle wondered if she had hurt herself.   She couldn’t find her voice to ask. 

_What is wrong with me?_  Her internal voice raged much easier.  _Talk to her, you idiot!_

Isabelle had run their potential conversation a thousand times over.   Eight years had passed, they were both adults, so she assumed a civil conversation could be held.  After hurtling past vague small talk, Sawyer would question her presence, and Isabelle would request a quiet moment to discuss the past and present.   And maybe future.   

And what had she managed so far?  Stuttering nonsense and melting into a pool of lust at the faintest brush of intimacy.  

Coming here was such a bad idea, she realized.  Nothing would go according to plan.  She was at the whim of fate.   

“Do you want something to drink?”  Sawyer asked, leading Isabelle through the kitchen. 

“Whatever you feel like,” Isabelle said.  She hovered in the corner while Sawyer grabbed a washcloth and touched it to the back of her head.   When she peered at it, she frowned.    Isabelle did not like that expression.   “Are you hurt?” she finally asked, concern surpassing anxiety. 

Sawyer threw the cloth on the counter again.  

“I’m fine,” she said.   Still so Sawyer.   If not for the distracting array of lean muscles now spread across her arms and back, Isabelle would say she looked exactly the same.    Though maybe a little meaner.   The old Sawyer would have cracked a grin by now. 

But Isabelle saw traces of the Sawyer she knew.   Frowning, she stepped further into the kitchen. 

“May I see?” she asked.

Sawyer stepped away, and something like a smile touched her face— but it was colder and the amusement dry.   

“Please don’t pretend to care about my well-being,” she said, and went to the fridge.

It stopped Isabelle, sharper than a slap.   She sucked in a breath.

Sawyer took her time retrieving two beers from the fridge.  She mutely uncapped them against the counter before sliding one across the table.   She sat and Isabelle lingered, watching Sawyer sprawl in an ungainly fashion on her chair.   She was never afraid to take up space.   Isabelle’s mother had thoroughly despised that lack of feminine grace. 

Secretly, it always made Isabelle’s stomach knot.  Only now she was older and better recognized the feeling as attraction.  

Isabelle licked her lips.  Sawyer looked away.

“I wanted to see you,” Isabelle said, running her hand across the back of a chair.

Sawyer sipped her beer.  

“I’ve been here,” Sawyer said.   In the same house, with the same business her late father ran by the looks of it.  Isabelle saw his obituary in the papers a few years ago.  He was once the best mechanic in the county, apparently.  Given the big garage and the litter of trucks in the spacious yard, Isabelle supposed the townsfolk concluded the same of Sawyer. 

Isabelle told her as much with polite congratulations, aware this was just pleasant small-talk.  But Sawyer had never been good at that either.    Her brow knit and she took another sip of beer. 

“Why are you here, Isabelle?” she asked, finally on-script.

Only now Isabelle could not say what she came to say.   The pithy summation she prepared fell through.   The past eight years gaped too wide.   She had too much to say, a whole life to lay bare.   She didn’t know where to start. 

She put her purse on the table and sat in the chair.   She poked the beer but didn’t drink it.    She remembered the first time she drank beer, right at this table with Sawyer and her father.   She didn’t drink it often.  Mostly because it reminded her of Sawyer.   

Just thinking her name over the years caused the wound in her heart to fester.   That whole summer she had braced herself for the inevitable sting of separation, but so much else happened that last night.   Emotion bubbled and boiled over and everything went so, so wrong.  

_We_ _have to be realistic_ , she remembered her own cruel words, _We have to grow up._

Isabelle felt warm in her cheeks, embarrassed at her younger self’s folly.   

Sawyer stared at her and put the beer on the table.  It clanked. 

“What?” she asked, leaning forward and, evidently, misconstruing Isabelle’s quiet countenance, “Did you come here to _fuck_?”

“What!”  Isabelle blushed indubitably. 

A bit of the old Sawyer crept through, but much harsher than Isabelle remembered.   And directed at her for the first time. 

“Still shy, huh, Kingsley?”  Sawyer asked.   “Was your Prince Charming not up to snuff between the sheets?  Did you decide to have a little fun with a cheap dyke and get yours before pitching the picket fence?”

Isabelle felt swarmed with embarrassment and simultaneous anger.  

“Stop it,” she said firmly.  Sawyer leaned back again.  “And no, that’s not why I’m here.   I’m not marrying Ralph.”   She looked at her untouched beer, catching the tail-end of Sawyer’s obvious surprise.   The engagement had been in all the big papers.   Sawyer must have seen it.   The wedding would be a grand affair.

Or, rather, it would have been.

“I called it off last week,” Isabelle said.  “We haven’t announced it yet.  Mama is in hysterics.  I swear I could hear her wailing halfway down the interstate.”   She picked at the label on the beer bottle.   “Daddy told me to take some time to myself and think it over.   That it wasn’t too late.    That Ralph loved me and would take me back.” 

“I can’t imagine your father advised you to come here.”

“No,” Isabelle said, soft.  She kept her eyes just as low.  “No.  This was my idea.”

Silence for a moment.  Sawyer’s beer bottle touched the table.   Her chair scraped the floor.  

“Why?” Sawyer asked.

“Why?”

“Why did you come back here?” 

Isabelle looked up.   Sawyer leant forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, shoulders hunched.   The tight muscles along her upper arms flexed in position.  Most of her short hair was tugged back in a low tail, a dark piece fallen loose from work.   Her gaze was intense. 

Isabelle looked away.   She opened her mouth but nothing came out.  

Sawyer leaned back.  

Silence again.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?”  Sawyer asked after a moment.

Isabelle looked at her.   She could see a familiar gaze, tucked behind a glance weathered by trial and melancholy.   But that was Sawyer in there.    Isabelle remembered the first time she saw those eyes, their mirth and hidden depths.   Sawyer could speak the most innocent things and all the while implore something deeper.   Something intended for Isabelle alone.  

Isabelle nodded. 

“Yes,” she said.  “If you don’t mind.”

Sawyer nodded, her countenance hardening again. 

“All right,” Sawyer said.  “Guess it’s a date.”

 

x

 

Sawyer was tense.  Conflicting personalities warred in her head, under her skin, threatening to tear her open in front of Isabelle.   

A part of her wanted to get on her knees and beg for an explanation, how everything went so badly all those years ago.   A part of her wanted to remain passive but kind, to extrapolate what information she could from a distance.   A part of her wanted to shut off completely, to stand firmly behind the walls she built over the last few years.  

A part of her had other ideas entirely, mostly conjured whenever Isabelle bent over to grab something from a bottom cupboard.   Or when she stepped too close and Sawyer had to resist burying her face in her throat, breathing her in with an open mouth. 

Or when Isabelle blushed.   She and Sawyer had never quite consummated their passionate young love, but she had seen enough to know how far down that blush wandered, and it hardly tempered the pulsing heat in her crotch.   

It had been a while since she had another woman in the house, she reasoned.   Sawyer mostly kept to short affairs on out-of-town excursions. 

Isabelle, bouncing around her kitchen and helping her prepare dinner, was going to fucking kill her.  Even if their conversation was cordial to the brink of an hysterical tension. 

“How did Ralph propose?”   Sawyer finally asked, like it was casual.  Like seeing that wedding announcement hadn’t made her furious— mostly furious at _herself_ for still caring.    For feeling like the last spark of hope had been extinguished when she knew, logically, it had never been lit. 

“Oh, well,” Isabelle said, “He asked Daddy first, of course.”

“Sure.  Of course.”

Isabelle gave her an unamused glance, indicating she heard the sarcasm but would not dignify it.    Always so prim-and-proper. 

“Then we went out for breakfast one morning and he just…  proposed.   We had been together two years at that point and I knew it was a good match,  socially.  He had a good name.  Old southern money, you know.   Mama and Daddy liked that.   And he has a real job.  He’s a doctor, which I liked.   I wasn’t worried about our future.  I know how to run the social circuit – the sorority reunion brunches and the charity luncheons.   I would be occupied.   He would be busy.   We would have children probably, but we didn’t talk about it.   So of course, when he asked,  I said yes.  It made sense.”

“But?”

“But?”

Sawyer helped bring the food to the dinner table.   Isabelle had helped her clean the work yard and prepare the meal, and it smelled better than anything Sawyer made on her own.   They sat the table, at opposite heads, the bread and bowls of pasta between them.  

“You broke it off,” Sawyer said, a little frustrated Isabelle evaded every question of actual import.   “So there must have been a ‘but’.”

“But…”  Isabelle placed her napkin on her knee.   Sawyer didn’t remember her so often hiding her gaze.   Isabelle was a little shy, but this was veering on ludicrous.  

“I’m up here,” Sawyer said.

Isabelle looked up.    She smoothed the napkin on her lap.

“But I changed my mind,” she said.  “That’s all.”

That wasn’t all.  She was _here_ , Sawyer told herself.   _She came back here._  That counted for something.  Isabelle didn’t run off to Europe to discover herself.   She didn’t run into the arms of another man.    She didn’t linger in society or stay at home.   She came back _here_ , to Sawyer.  

After all these years, Sawyer wished she was smart enough to feel indifferent to that fact.   But it made her heart flicker with sentiment, with curiosity, fear, and undoubted affection. 

They finished eating in silence, occasionally glancing at one another.  

 

There was one more part of Sawyer.   The part of her that contained a nineteen year old girl who loved another girl— the girl standing beside her on the porch right now.   The part of her that recognized Isabelle before even looking at her.  The part that recognized her voice in a few short syllables:  

_Marilyn_.  

There was no frillier or prettier name in the south and it never fit Sawyer, but on Isabelle’s lips it sounded different.   It always did.  Her name was not a prison when blessed by her tongue.    Marilyn Sawyer could be anything, could exist outside of true definition, and it was okay to Isabelle.   

Things were different now.   This final part of her ached for the easy familiarity they shared so long ago.   The love that sprouted so easily between them, despite a million reasons to stay away from each other.    But there was too much hurt there, too much hurt and not enough explanation.    Without bringing it to light, they were shackled to miserable stagnancy.     

“Do you have somewhere to stay?”  Sawyer asked, because she couldn’t help but ask.   She was betraying so much of her better judgement.  

Isabelle shook her head.   The gentle evening breeze came in off the water and kissed back her curls.  

“No,” she said.  “I thought I would check into a hotel tonight and… and leave tomorrow.”

Sawyer gripped the porch banister tighter.   She stared at the blackening lake. 

Why should she care if Isabelle left again?  It was far from perfect, but this was sufficient closure.  She could ask for more, but she wouldn’t.   She couldn’t find the willpower to yell at Isabelle or start a fight about her long-ago cowardice.  Not just about the way she left but every day that followed.   Sawyer had worked relentlessly to get in touch and Isabelle just let her go.  

Sawyer could do the same.   She could just let her go.

“You can stay here tonight,” Sawyer said, because apparently her brain shared no discourse with her mouth.   “It’s late.   It’s a bit of a drive to the closest hotel.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Isabelle said.

Sawyer couldn’t help the small, fond laugh.  “You’re always so polite, Belle.”    And she was.  Helping with her work, with dinner, with the dishes.   Even while they talked about superfluous nothings and danced around each other.  

“That’s me,” Isabelle said, though her voice went a little lower after hearing the old pet name.   Sawyer turned and found Isabelle already looking at her, eyes bright. 

Sawyer cleared her throat.  

“I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch,” she said. 

“Don’t you have a second bedroom?”  Isabelle asked.

“My old room?  It was downstairs so I turned it into storage for the garage,” Sawyer answered.  It was easier to talk about trivial stuff like this.   “I refurnished the master bedroom.   And the kitchen, and the garage, and the—”   She thought about the renovations she did after her father died, particularly one specific room she had done.  The tinkling of piano keys echoed in her head.   She stamped down the thought of sharing.    She wasn’t going there; she wasn’t bringing it up.   She stuck to trivial nothings.   “And a few other rooms,” she said, “But the master bedroom is the only bedroom.   So I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“That’s silly, it’s your—”

“Belle,” she said, flashing the warmest smile she could muster, “Let me be polite for once.” 

Isabelle blushed deeply.   Maybe it just looked darker in the fading light of day.   Sawyer tried not to think about that blush spreading across her chest, maybe a little lower. 

Sawyer cleared her throat again. 

“Lake’s nice, isn’t it?” she asked.

Isabelle smiled and nodded, and they talked about that for a bit.   The conversation flowed, stilted but freely from one subject to the next.   Sawyer even laughed at one point.  

Then, out of nowhere, Isabelle said, “I cried.”

Her pleasant tone nosedived.  Before Sawyer could request elaboration, however, Isabelle continued.

“I cried,” she said, “The first time I… the first time I had… sexual relations with Ralph.   He was—he was my first time altogether.    We had been together more than a year by then and I… I knew he would be the one.  The one I marry.   I could see where it was going, my whole life, laid out nice and pretty before me.”

Completely blind-sided, Sawyer struggled to process this revelation.  It was a lot to unpack.  The fact Isabelle was virgin until a year ago, the fact she _cried_ after  her first time.   The fact her first time was with _Doctor_ _Ralph Greenwood_ —

“We never did it again.”

Christ.  Her first and _only_ time with _Doctor Ralph Greenwood_.

“We tried but every time he…  I just couldn’t…”  She breathed in.  “I told him I preferred to do the Christian thing and wait for marriage to do it again.  Not sure what I planned to do once that happened.”   She laughed but it wasn’t happily. 

Sawyer didn’t know what to say.  Neither did Isabelle anymore, it seemed. 

“I’m sorry,” Isabelle said after a stretch of quiet.   “That was an inappropriate interjection.  But you asked earlier, why I… changed my mind about marrying him… and…   It wasn’t that alone but…” 

“It’s fine,” Sawyer said, not sure if it was or wasn’t.

Another moment of quiet and Isabelle said, “I wished it was you.” 

Sawyer swallowed.   She looked at Isabelle who now gazed across the lake.   Her expression was wistful.   She was somewhere else.  

“What?”  Sawyer asked, thinking she must have misheard.   Her throat ran dry.

“I wished it was you,” Isabelle said, softer instead of louder.  “I wished we had— when we wanted to and were interrupted—  And after that first time with Ralph, I thought about it.   I thought about you.”   She looked down and touched the porch banister.    “I thought about you a lot.  More than I should have.”

Sawyer said nothing, even though now was the perfect time to say everything.  But she couldn’t swallow around the lump in her throat.   Isabelle stood very still.   Then Sawyer swore she could _feel_ Isabelle staring at her.   She looked down.   That gaze caressed her face and softened Sawyer’s expression.   She fought to keep the harder iron walls sturdy around her heart, even if the edifice of her strength fractured.

“It was real, wasn’t it?” Isabelle asked softly.   “You and me?  All those years ago?  We were just two young girls, and we barely understood the world, but we understood that, didn’t we?  We loved each other, and it was real, and we knew it.”

Sawyer had to look away.   It was too dark to see the lake now, but she could hear the rush of wind on water.  

“I’m sorry,” Isabelle said when she received no reply.  “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Don’t apologize,” Sawyer said.

 “Southern politeness, remember?”   Isabelle smiled weakly.  

They looked at one another.   The sun had set completely.  Isabelle shivered and Sawyer blamed it on the cold.

“Come on,” Sawyer said.  “There’s a chill out here.” 

She didn’t feel cold.  Given the warm hue on Isabelle’s cheeks, she suspected the feeling was mutual.   And she didn’t know what to do about it. 

 

x

 

Isabelle swore her heart palpitated near fatally.

One moment she and Sawyer were in the sitting room, the radio on low while they commented on this and that, then suddenly Isabelle remembered this was _the sitting room_.    

She looked at Sawyer.   Sawyer was blissfully unaware or unaffected.  Isabelle had no idea how. 

Because this was _the_ sitting room.   

The furniture had moved and the radio was newer, but this was the last place they were together as a couple.   It was arguably the first place they _became_ a couple.   Or at least when Isabelle accepted it. 

Their relationship had always been romantic but Isabelle had convinced herself otherwise.  _More than once._ But at the end of the day, it was obvious.   She couldn’t keep her hands off Sawyer, couldn’t help but nestle against her.   She never danced with anyone else; she never wanted to do so.   She bore her soul and accepted all of Sawyer’s secrets in turn.     

It was intense and magnificent, her eighteenth summer, a summer of change—blooming wild and bright and rare. 

Kisses had started small, then grew familiar.   Always playful until they weren’t.  

The first time Sawyer _really_ kissed her, Isabelle suffered the fleeting fear she would faint.   It was preposterous, maybe, but it stole her breath away.   That kiss was at the Kingsley summer estate.   They were on the porch swing, cuddling closer and closer the longer they were left alone.   

Sawyer’s teasing fingers ceased their flurried dance, having tickled Isabelle to the brink of mania.  Isabelle laughed loudly enough to bring down the mansion walls.   She was more carefree and happy in that moment than in eighteen years of life. 

Then Sawyer’s hands settled on her hips, drawing Isabelle close. 

 “You’re my favourite person,” Isabelle said, innocent but aware of her blush.   But Isabelle blushed so very easily, it didn’t mean much.   So she told herself.  “I love you more than any friend I’ve ever had.”

Sawyer smiled at her.  There was a deeper understanding in her gaze.   Something that only existed when she looked at Isabelle.  It left Isabelle pleasantly warm in her chest.

Isabelle’s legs were draped over Sawyer’s lap.  Sawyer had her hands on her waist.   She drew Isabelle upright, and Isabelle felt an unexpected flush of heat low in her belly.   She clenched instinctively.  Her breath caught before Sawyer even kissed her.

It should have been nothing.  They kissed all the time. Love between girls was different, Isabelle often told herself.   It was more personal and intimate in nature. 

She shared something special with Sawyer, told her secrets she told no one else.  She shared her thoughts and ideas and dreams.   And Sawyer reciprocated in total.   If they could be so intimate in an emotional capacity, surely the physical was a natural progression.

It was okay to hold her hand.   To kiss her cheek or nose or lips. 

Sawyer did just that, a familiar and gentle press.  Isabelle stuttered on a breath, her lips parting, which  Sawyer took as encouragement.  Isabelle’s whole body went soft as she kissed her deeply.   Sawyer’s careful hands cradled her close, Isabelle’s fingers clutching the collar of her shirt.   They kissed and kissed and kissed until Isabelle was squirming again.  

She wanted more.   She wanted _so_ _much_ more.

It was a good thing Sawyer kept her head about her, because Isabelle hadn’t heard anyone approaching.   But Sawyer placed a respectable distance between them, just in time for Isabelle’s mother to appear on the porch.  

“You girls having fun?” she asked, tersely.   She didn’t like that Isabelle was friends with Sawyer.

Isabelle, feeling incredibly wicked, couldn’t even answer her mother. 

Kisses after that were different.   True, they continued their more innocent exchanges.  Sawyer still stole small kisses when other people turned their back.   It still made Isabelle giggle.   Only now its impression was lasting.  It left her wanting.   She thought she understood, for the first time, what other girls meant when they talked about their boys.  

But that was silly, she decided then.   Sawyer wasn’t a boy and Isabelle wasn’t a _deviant –_ a word Mama had called Sawyer about an hour after meeting her.   It sounded so filthy. 

“You be better than that, Isabelle,” she dictated.  “You be a kind Christian to that girl, but you keep your head about you.    You can only be so kind before it gets ungodly and dirty.” 

And yet when playful kisses got away from them (when Sawyer pressed her against the front door of her ramshackle house, or let Isabelle slide onto her lap in the back of the truck, or one thrilling moment during one of their passionate arguments when they jumped each other and Sawyer ripped four buttons right off Isabelle’s blouse),  Isabelle would have called herself anything so long as she could call Sawyer hers.   And not one of those things sounded dirty. 

And so it was right here, in this sitting room, Isabelle gave into that. 

“We’re in love, aren’t we?”  she had asked Sawyer.  “Real love.  Like a husband and wife.”

They were on the floor, laying on a cluster of blankets and cushions.  On their sides, they faced one another and spoke quietly.  

Sawyer’s father was upstate visiting his brother.   The house was quiet but didn’t feel empty.  Isabelle was so bursting at that moment, she swore the power of her affection radiated outward and filled the countryside.

Sawyer, in reply, tucked back a few of Isabelle’s curls.  She smiled.

“Even more than that, I think,” she said. 

It was the most terrifying moment of Isabelle’s life.  It was like discovering magic in a lacklustre realm.  A door to some other world opened in front of her and Isabelle could see a life she would have never dreamed before.   And it was terrifying, but she was electrified with joy. 

“Can we do that?” she asked.  “Can we love each other like that?”

Sawyer kissed her, slowly.  Her lips parted and Isabelle followed, closing her eyes, losing herself to the slow pulsing rhythm.   She licked at Sawyer’s upper lip as she pulled away.   Her eyelids felt heavy. 

“I think our love can do anything we want it to,” Sawyer said. 

With trembling fingers, Isabelle reached for the button on Sawyer’s pants.   She unclasped it and Sawyer breathed in. 

“Show me,” Isabelle said. 

It didn’t take more convincing.  Sawyer kissed her again and plucked at the buttons of Isabelle’s dress.   The firelight from the mantelpiece flickered over every inch of exposed skin.  Isabelle arched instinctively toward the graze of her fingertips, Sawyer carefully drawing the dress down her body. 

“I didn’t bring you here for this,” Sawyer said.  “Just so you know.  I just wanted to be with you.   I wouldn’t assume…”  

Isabelle just hummed in reply, tipping her head so her curls spilled over her shoulder.   Sawyer immediately moved in, kissing down her throat.  Isabelle laced her fingers through Sawyer’s hair, holding her close. 

“You haven’t done this before,” Sawyer said in between kisses.   She kissed right down to the space between Isabelle’s breasts.   She paused at the cross of her bra, licking her lips.

“You haven’t either,” Isabelle said.

“I’ve done a little,” Sawyer replied, but Isabelle already knew that.   There weren’t many secrets between them. 

That steadfast trust allowed Isabelle to sink into Sawyer’s touch.  Where lecherous gazes of passing men could leave Isabelle feeling sullied, Sawyer’s intense stare made her feel beautiful.  Made her body thrum eagerly.   Made her feel tight inside as her flesh seemed to bemoan its emptiness.

“Are you nervous?”  Sawyer asked, but before Isabelle could answer, she grumbled, “Sorry.  I’m talking too much.”

Isabelle smiled.

“That’s okay,” she said.  “I like your voice.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

Sawyer’s hand shook but circled the curve of one breast then moved down, sliding under Isabelle’s thigh.   She hoisted it over her own hip and Isabelle blushed hot red down to her toes.

Then Joey Rogue, Sawyer’s friend who helped with her father’s car-shop, came bursting in the front door.

“Joey!”  Sawyer wasted no time throwing a cushion at him.  Isabelle squealed and tried to cover up.

“Sorry, sister, but Isabelle’s parents!”  His genuine panic caught their attention.  “They’re tearing up the countryside looking for her and they’re gonna send cops this way if Isabelle isn’t home soon!” 

 

It went without saying, that was that.

 

Isabelle stared at Sawyer.   Sawyer busied her hands with a car piece in need of repair, listening to the radio.   She commented on the announcer and laughed at something, completely oblivious to Isabelle’s plight.   _How_?   How could she be so casual in here?  Isabelle couldn’t even look at the mantelpiece without feeling the burn of a long-ago dimmed blaze.     

That was the first time they were together for _real_.   The last time they were together as a couple.   The last time because Isabelle burst into tears on the Kingsley doorstep later that night.   Tears that turned to anger.  Anger for her parents, for the world, for herself.   Anger that she turned onto Sawyer.

Closing her eyes, Isabelle wondered if _that_ kept Sawyer calm.   Maybe nothing good about that night lingered in her memory.   Maybe she just remembered Isabelle shaking with emotion, made scared by the terrible things her parents told her about this _lifestyle_ , made scared by her own emotions only just recently embraced, made scared by the fact Sawyer tried to _leave_ …

_Do you remember that?_ Isabelle wanted to ask but didn’t.   _You left first_.

That probably wasn’t fair.  Mama was screaming terrible things about her in the library and Daddy gave her a dirty look before closing the door.  She stayed longer than anyone else would have.   Isabelle caught her trying to leave minutes after fleeing the library. 

“Please don’t go,” quickly became, “Fine!  Then go!” when Sawyer didn’t respond to her tears or pleading or anguished cries of fear.   In retrospect, she didn’t know what she wanted Sawyer to do.  They were both just kids. 

“I don’t want to leave,” Sawyer had said, miserably.  “I don’t want you to leave either.  I just—want this to be different—”

“But it’s not!”  Isabelle said, pushing her away.  “Mama’s right!  We have to be realistic!  We have to grow up!  So leave!  I don’t care!  I’m going home in a week anyway and we won’t ever have to see each other again.   Then everyone will finally be happy!” 

_Happy_.   God, she hadn’t been happy in years.  Mildly content, some days.  That was being generous.

Isabelle sighed. 

“Everything all right?”  Sawyer asked.  

Isabelle opened her eyes to the familiar crease of concern in her brow.   She nodded, afraid to speak more.   Once she mustered some resolve, she said, “I’m tired.   I had a long drive.  Would you mind if I go to bed?”

“Of course not,” Sawyer said, and stood.   “Come on.  Right this way.”

 

x

 

It was a clear summer night. 

“You got me into real big trouble the other day,” Isabelle said, except she was eighteen and this was a memory— this was the street, the quiet night alone, the first tendrils of friendship unspooling under moonlight.

A simpler time.

Sawyer, nineteen and careless, walked backwards so she wouldn’t miss a single second of looking at Isabelle. 

“Did I?” she asked, hands in her pockets.  It was the only way to make sure she wouldn’t reach out.   Isabelle deserved better than some grabby lech.   “How?”

“My date, the boy you got thrown out of the carnival – he’s the son of my Daddy’s friend.   He and Mama weren’t happy with how things went.”

“And how about you?”  Sawyer asked.   They passed a flickering streetlamp.  “Were you happy?”

Isabelle blushed real easily, but as the evening wore on, it lessened.   Sawyer took it as a compliment, shyness giving way to reveal something truer.   She suspected it was a side of her that Isabelle did not often share.   Not without a great deal of trust.  

Isabelle smiled.  

“I wasn’t _un_ happy,” she said, and Sawyer smiled back.  But the tentative trust between them fractured, just a bit.   Isabelle adjusted her hair and her blush returned.   “Um, what did your friend Joey mean, when he left with Anne?”  

Anne was Isabelle’s friend.   She and Joey had a date that night.  Isabelle and Sawyer tagged along, not that the happy couple paid attention to their stragglers.  They made out the whole movie while Sawyer stole furtive glances at an awkward Isabelle.  When the couple drove off after the movie, Sawyer offered to walk Isabelle home.    Before they left, Joey teased, “You girlies gonna fall in love?” 

Sawyer knew that question was the subject of Isabelle’s confusion.   Suddenly nervous, Sawyer turned to fall in step beside her.

“When he said what?” she asked, mostly biding time. 

This conversation would make or break whatever was between them.   Sawyer never revealed this much this early in a relationship.  Not that her fooling around with local girls could be called _relationships_.   That was, according to them, just playing.  Like little kids.   Something girls did for fun, practicing for boys.  Until they realized Sawyer had no intention of moving onto men.   Then it became something gross. 

She didn’t want Isabelle to think of her that way. 

“When he asked if we were gonna fall in love,” Isabelle said.  “It was a silly thing to say.”

Sawyer could have lied.   She should have lied.   She should have said Joey was just being an ass. 

She buried her hands deeper in her pockets.   Her hair was down, cut messy to her chin.   She wished it was tucked in a hat.   She wished she could hide in the shadow of the brim.   Wished the moon wasn’t so clear tonight.   She stared at the pavement as they walked down the quiet street.

“Ah, he was just teasing,” she said.   “He knows how I am.  It’s not anything to do with you.  Don’t worry about it.”

“How you are,” Isabelle repeated.  

Sawyer looked at Isabelle’s feet.  She was wearing pretty flats, a dark blue.  Sawyer clunked along in boots laced up to the ankle.  

“Yeah,” Sawyer said.  “How I am.”

“How are you?”

“I’m good.  How are you?”

Isabelle bumped her shoulder.   She didn’t dignify the sarcasm with a proper response, though she laughed.   

Isabelle was too polite to press the subject.  They walked along in silence a moment longer.   Sawyer’s heart beat so hard in her chest, she thought it might thump through and hit the sidewalk. 

“I don’t like boys,” she said.   Her confession surprised even her.   Surely that came from someone else, someone braver.  She almost turned around, but there was no one else there.  

“I don’t understand,” Isabelle said.  “Don’t like them how?  Aren’t you and Joey friends?”

“Yeah,” Sawyer said, and she laughed, but it was breathless and without humour.  She tugged at the fabric inside her pockets.   “We’re friends.  Joey is good people.  But friends is how I like ‘em.   I don’t… I don’t _like_ boys.” 

Isabelle chewed on her words.   She tucked a curl behind her ear. 

“You mean,” she said slowly, “You don’t fall in love with them.” 

“Yeah,” Sawyer said.   Her stomach was in knots.   Her throat tightened. 

“Can you not fall in love?” 

“I can,” Sawyer said, looking sideways at Isabelle.  “I could definitely fall in love.”

“But not with a man.”  Isabelle looked up.  Her breath caught and Sawyer slowed to a stop.   Isabelle kicked at a pebble. 

“But not with a man,” Sawyer said. 

“Oh.”   Isabelle looked at the ground.   “How nice for you.” 

They both burst out laughing seconds later.   Tension between teenagers never lasted.   There was too much to feel and not enough time to feel it.   It burst easily, and they held their stomachs, laughing at nothing but their own awkwardness.   Sawyer trembled with the force of it. 

“Do you wanna play tag?”  Isabelle asked suddenly. 

“What?”  Sawyer was half-in love with that smile already.   “Tag? Here?”

“Yeah!”  Isabelle swung her purse over her head so the strap crossed her chest.   “The street’s empty.  It’ll be fun.   I feel like I need to move.  Do something fast.   You wanna?” 

Sawyer wanted to kiss her, as fast or slow as she wanted.   She smiled instead, looking around. 

“Uh…”

“Oh, come on.”  Isabelle grabbed her arm.  “It’ll be fun.”

Sawyer never stood a chance against eyes that big and hopeful.   It wasn’t lost on her that Isabelle seemed less shy now that she knew Sawyer’s secret.   Rightfully so, maybe; she held the power to destroy Sawyer in the palm of her hand.   And all she wanted to do was play. 

“Okay,” Sawyer said.  “Who’s it?”

“You are!”  Isabelle smacked her arm and took off down the street.    Her form was terrible.  Then again, that dress hugged her to her knees, so it was probably difficult to move.  

Sawyer, in her old black pants and big work coat, decided to show mercy.   She gave Isabelle a few seconds then ran after her. 

Laughing loud, Isabelle hurried across the street.   Sawyer chased after her, ducking around a parked car.   Isabelle darted to the other side.   They came to a momentary stop, judging one another from opposite sides of the car. 

“Got you,” Sawyer said.  

Isabelle bit her lip, which really wasn’t fair, then took off running again.   Sawyer took another second and followed, chasing her across the street.   She almost smashed into the wall when Isabelle sharply turned.   Catching herself on the brick face, she let out a breath.

“Hurry up!”  Isabelle shouted. 

Maybe Sawyer had underestimated her.   She pushed off the wall and ran faster, determined to catch her now.   Isabelle must have seen that determination because she yelped, clutching her purse as she hurried forward. 

A car turned the next corner, honking at Isabelle.   She shrieked again, jumping out of its way.   It tore down the block and Sawyer came up behind her.   She threw her arms around her waist and lifted her right off the ground. 

“Ha!”

“That’s not fair!  There was a car!” 

“Still got you.”

She put Isabelle back on her feet, but held her just a little longer.   Isabelle didn’t shrug her off.   Nor did she seem the slightest bit uncomfortable, turning around in Sawyer’s arms.   Sawyer decided she was in love with her already, as Isabelle rested her head on Sawyer’s shoulder to catch her breath. 

“Can I pick the next game?”  Sawyer asked. 

Isabelle picked at the collar of Sawyer’s jacket.

“That depends on the game,” she said. 

Sawyer kept her arms loose around her, fighting the compulsion to slide her hands up and touch her properly.   Isabelle lifted her head but kept her gaze downturned. 

“Dance with me?”  Sawyer asked. 

Isabelle blinked up at her. 

“Dance?  Here?”  She looked around.   “There’s no music.”

“I’ll sing then.  But you probably won’t like it.” 

“I’m sure you’re a lovely singer,” Isabelle laughed.  “And I would know— I am quite the music expert.”

“That so?” Sawyer asked.  “You can provide the music then.   Let’s do it.” 

 She stepped back.  Isabelle shivered at their separation.  

“Come on, Belle.”  Sawyer held out her hand.  “Dance with me.” 

Isabelle blushed again, but with her parted lips and heavy eyelids, it didn’t look like embarrassment.  

“What is it?”  Sawyer asked, smiling.

“Nothing.”  Isabelle took her outstretched hand.  “I just don’t let most people call me Belle.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s too pretty.”

Sawyer pulled her into the middle of the street.  Isabelle put her hand on her shoulder, assuming a stiff position like a trained ballroom dancer.   Sawyer laughed, her hand moving to Isabelle’s lower back.   They rocked gently in place.  

“You are pretty,” Sawyer said, “It suits you just fine.” 

Isabelle ducked, avoiding eye contact.  She rested her head on Sawyer’s shoulder and exhaled.  Her form loosened. 

“You can call me Belle.  If you like,” Isabelle said.  She lifted her head again.  “Do I get a special name for you?”

Sawyer felt heat in her own cheeks.  She blushed far less often than Isabelle, but apparently not less intensely. 

“My first name is Marilyn.   Never liked it, though.”

“Why not?”

“Too pretty.”  She smirked. 

Isabelle crinkled her nose, eyes sparkling under lamplight.  

“It is kinda precious,” she said.  “But I think you’re pretty.  In a different way.   A handsome way.”

“Yeah?”

Isabelle put her head on her shoulder again.

“Yeah,” she said. 

 

That was a good memory. 

It was cruel of her subconscious to summon it during sleep.   Sawyer was utterly defenseless against it. 

 

Sawyer woke the next morning to a knock.  Groggy from a fitful sleep, it took her a minute to gather her bearings.   She remembered the couch, remembered the night before, remembered her dream.   _Memory_.   Remembered Isabelle Kingsley was here, in her home, upstairs, sleeping in her bed. 

The knocking turned incessant.   She glanced at the clock.   It was almost nine.   She didn’t usually sleep this late.

“Shit,” she grumbled, rubbing her eyes as she stood.   With a quick stretch, she ambled toward the knocking sound.   She could see Joey through the kitchen window.   Tugging open the door, she leaned against the doorframe.   “Can I help you?”

He gave her a once-over.   A curious regard turned laughing. 

“Ooh, sorry,” he said.   “Yesterday’s work clothes?  Just woke up?  You don’t have _company_ do you?” 

“It’s Saturday, Joey,” she said in lieu of a reply.   No way she was getting into this with him right now.  

She loved Joey.  She did.  He was like a brother.   She and him ran the auto-shop, taking over  it after her father died.   They expanded it and hired a team to great renown and success.   She owed half her livelihood to his friendship and diligence. 

But having Isabelle in the house reminded Sawyer of what she had been missing—a more integral connection with another woman.   Joey was all eyebrow-wiggles and innuendos, when he wasn’t playing hypocrite and policing impertinence, which was great in moderation.   Not what Sawyer needed right now.   

“Me and a couple of the guys are heading into town for the day.   Thought we’d shop for parts and get a bite.   But I’m guessing you’re not interested…?”

Sawyer heard a sound upstairs.  Isabelle was up.   She glanced vaguely upward then back at Joey.   He was grinning. 

“Shut up,” she said, but couldn’t help her affection.   “I’ll give you a call later.”

“Please do.”

“Good-bye, Joey.”  She closed the door before he could say more.   When it closed, she caught a better look at herself in the window reflection.  

She admitted, it looked like she had a tumble.   Her hair was loose and ruffled, her tank crinkled, and she forgot to button up her jeans.   She didn’t want to sleep without them entirely in case Isabelle came downstairs.   God only knew it took every bit of restraint not to jump her fully-clothed.   She didn’t need encouraging. 

Her jeans slipped down her hips and she tugged them back up.   She decided to head upstairs for a quick wash, but bumped into Isabelle on the way. 

“Sorry,” Sawyer said, her eyes downcast to button her pants.   Isabelle looked there and up quickly.

“Um, me too,” Isabelle said. 

She only brought one suitcase with her, but leave it to Isabelle to doll up anyway.   Her dress today was white, a curve-hugging ivory slip beneath a soft translucent layer, cinched at the waist with a gold band.   It was saved from the clutches of immodesty with a high neckline.   Little gold teardrops dangled from her ears, a gold chain strung around her neck.   She pinned half her hair back, a lower layer of curls sweeping over her shoulders. 

Sawyer zipped up her fly. 

“You look nice,” she said.  Understatement.   She tried not to linger on the memory a white dress conjured.   _The first time they met_.   She shook her head.   “I was just going to have a wash.”

She should have asked Isabelle what time she was leaving—  but that wasn’t going to happen.  She had known it, even before the white dress. 

Resigned and not entirely displeased, she asked instead, “Are you hungry?  You can help yourself to whatever.”

Isabelle smiled.

“Sure,” she said, “Thank you.”

Sawyer nodded.  They brushed past one another, Isabelle touching her bicep unnecessarily.   Sawyer looked down at her as they stepped around each other.   

Isabelle wore little white flats and they reminded Sawyer of another night, of quick footsteps on the pavement and carefree laughter.   Heat seemed to bloom in her chest, that sentimental stupidity.   Good memories overtook the bad ones.   For her own sake, she tried to cling to angst, but that dress and those curls held her hostage.   

“Do you want to go for a walk with me?”  Sawyer asked.   “Just down to the lake.  After breakfast.”

Isabelle smiled.   Christ.   She was going to break Sawyer all over again.  

“Sure,” she said.  “Sounds nice.”

Sawyer nodded.  She didn’t trust herself to speak more, worried what other invitations and liberties she might grant.   She turned heel and went to the stairs, taking them two at a time.   Maybe a good wash would wipe everything away.  

Rinsing her hair a while later, she closed her eyes under the warm water and sighed. 

Isabelle wore white the night they met.   The night of the carnival.   She came flouncing out of a fun house in a little white splash of summer, looking like every dreamy July afternoon.   Like sunlight and sheer curtains breezing over cotton sheets.   She was laughing, her arm looped with a friend.   That laugh made her the prettiest girl Sawyer had ever seen.    

When a boy swooped in and took Isabelle’s free hand, Sawyer recoiled.  At least, she endeavoured.   But her sudden infatuation was so intense, even Joey noticed.    Her sexuality was an unspoken understanding at that point.   He grabbed her arm and dragged her away, giving her some lecture on propriety.

“Her name’s Isabelle Kingsley,” he said, “And she is so out of your league that she’s playing a different sport.”

Sawyer was a little reckless back then.  She admitted it.  She was more insecure than she let on, and she overcompensated for her anxieties by barrelling head-first into an endless stream of disastrous confrontations.   She had been beaten up as many times as she had thrown a punch.   She had been kissed far less, but stole little moments with girls who she intrigued, but who never truly reciprocated.

When she saw Isabelle, she couldn’t just surrender defeat.   She charged the delicate circumstance head-on. 

Her companion was getting handsy in the ferris wheel.  Sawyer could hear Isabelle telling him off, but he started again in no time.

“I’m serious, Fitz!”  Isabelle’s voice carried, “You’ve been doing this all night!  I’m not that kinda girl!”

When their carriage next swept the ground, Sawyer launched herself at it.   Isabelle squeaked in surprise.   The guy leaned away as Sawyer squished between them.  

“This seat taken?” she asked, grinning at Isabelle.

The stiff prison of her posture let loose when Isabelle heard her speak.   She studied Sawyer’s face beneath the shadow of her hat. 

“You’re a girl, aren’t you!”  It sounded more like an observation than a question so Sawyer just smiled. 

The guy was less enthused.

“Lady, you can’t just jump on a ride in the middle of a—”

“ _Marilyn_ _Sawyer_!”  That was Hooke Basset, the carnie who worked the ferris wheel.   The whole ride jerked to a stop.   “ _Two to a carriage, Sawyer!  What the hell are you thinking!_ ” 

“Cram it, Basset! I’m rescuing a damsel from a schmuck who can’t take no for an answer!” 

“Rescuing a—” Mr Grabby sputtered indignantly.   “Who do you think you are—”

“Sawyer,” she said, but not to him.  She offered Isabelle her hand.  “How do you do?”

Isabelle was still gaping at her, like Sawyer was a rare species of bird.  In fact, she might have been less surprised had a bald eagle taken up their company.  

At the direct address, she came to herself.   Her tongue swiped her bottom lip, left it tantalizing damp, and then she smiled and took Sawyer’s hand.   

“Isabelle,” she said, her voice a little smaller.   Her cheeks pinkened ever-so-slightly.    

“Yeah,” Sawyer replied, “I know.” 

Pink blossomed to red and Isabelle shifted in her seat.  Sawyer swept her thumb over the back of her hand.  

“ _Sawyer_!”  Fucking Basset.

“What, you want me to climb down?  Idiot!  Fine!”  She stood and grabbed the closest bar, swinging off the carriage.   Isabelle shrieked and Mr Grabby blanched.  

“Sawyer, for the love of god!”  That was Joey from somewhere below.

“You know, I’ve got this sneaking suspicion they’re gonna throw me out of the park,” she said, directly to Mr Grabby, “And you can bet your bad cologne you’re coming with me.”

“What!”

She called down to Basset again, promising to co-operate if they also removed this _gentleman_ from the park for harassing women.    The guy protested, but he wasn’t the one dangling off a ferris wheel.

“I didn’t do anything!”  The guy insisted.  

Sawyer looked at Isabelle. 

“Ma’am?” she asked. 

Isabelle blinked, overwhelmed by all the action and attention.  

“For god’s sake, she’s gonna fall!”  Joey called again.  “Just throw them both out and be done with it!” 

“ _Sawyer, Fitzgerald!   Sit down and exit the carriage when you’re prompted!_ ” 

“Fitzgerald?”  Sawyer asked Mr Grabby, her eyebrow quirked.  “That’s your name?  Sorry, man.”

Isabelle giggled.   That reaction alone was worth getting dragged off the ferris wheel and thrown out of the park.   Maybe even worth Fitzgerald taking a swing at her.  

“Isabelle!” he tried calling over the fence.  “Your father won’t like this one bit!” 

Sawyer made her escape in his distraction.   Joey caught up just in time for another lecture. 

“Do you know how long she’s in town?”  Sawyer asked, completely ignoring his every word.

“Oh my god.”  Joey sounded exasperated.  “You are crazy, woman.”

 

She _was_ crazy.  Crazy for letting herself get carried away all those years ago, and crazy for welcoming all that crazy right back into her life.

Sawyer stepped out of the draining bath and dried off.   She could hear Isabelle in the kitchen so she walked to her bedroom, naked and towel-drying her hair.   She threw the towel on the floor and rifled through her closet for something to wear.

_Casual_ , she told herself.   _Don’t get swept up in this nonsense._

Except she thought about Isabelle in that white dress and huffed.

A few minutes later she was downstairs, glancing at herself in the hall mirror.  Black slacks and a white button-down over an undershirt that was tight enough she didn’t bother with a bra.   Probably a bad idea.  It would be obvious if she breathed too heavy or she got cold.   But she didn’t go upstairs and change. 

Sawyer finger-combed her hair.  It hung neat just below her chin, shiny and black.  A few shorter strands curled over the corner of her forehead. 

_Right,_ she told herself _, you can be casual starting now._

She went into the kitchen to find Isabelle had cooked for them.   She waved a spoon as Sawyer came through the door. 

“Want some coffee?” she asked, her eyes wandering over Sawyer as she passed her a mug.  A bit of it sloshed over and she apologized, wiping at Sawyer’s shirt.   Sawyer pulled away.  

“Thanks,” she said shortly, taking a sip. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“You didn’t have to let me stay,” Isabelle said, returning to the eggs she was frying.   “I’m just saying thank you.”

Sawyer briefly entertained the idea of _another_ form of gratitude— unzipping the back of her dress, tracing her fingers down the elegant line of her spine.   A dress like that would puddle like crystalline water at her feet.   Sawyer would kneel right there in the silk of it, touching the softer slope of Isabelle’s inner thighs all the way up to— 

Sawyer put down the coffee and shrugged her shoulders.  

“Let me help,” she said, and tried to keep busy.  Keep her mind occupied. 

Isabelle smelled like rosewater today.   The smell made Sawyer feel drunk.   She was not going to escape this weekend unscathed, unburned, or unhurt.  

And still her treacherous imagination wandered against her will.   Still Isabelle smiled. 

And still, Sawyer knew, she would have pulled any reckless stunt in the world to keep her safe and smiling. 

 

x

 

Isabelle once called Sawyer handsome, years ago.   She said it blithely then, but she understood it now.   Her short hair was neat, the smart lines of her face occasionally revealing some fonder inner thought.    Her trousers were shapely, more so than how men dressed, barely concealing a feminine form so delicious as to entice a shiver.

That white shirt was snug in all the right places, rolled up to the elbows to reveal strong forearms.   Her hands were rough with years of work.   Isabelle found herself staring at those hands all through breakfast.   Sawyer would reach for a glass or twirl her fork, rake her fingers through her hair or flatten loose strands.   When she rested it on the table, Isabelle had to remind herself why it was a bad idea to reach out and hold it.   No chance Sawyer was ready for that.   There was still so much unspoken between them.

And yet, in the light of a new day, things felt different.  An understanding unspoken.  Only the occasional silence reminded them of their distance.   And even then, the air was thick with another steadfast tension.  Isabelle crossed her legs under the table. 

“I’ll wash up later,” Sawyer insisted, clearing the table.   She brushed her hands on her thighs.  Isabelle gazed up at her.   “Still up for that walk?” she asked, tentative, like maybe Isabelle had changed her mind.

Not for the world.

“Yes,” Isabelle said.  “Let’s go.” 

Outside, Sawyer squinted in the distance. 

“What is it?”  Isabelle asked.

“Looks like rainclouds.”  She peered upward.   “We have some time, though.  Wanna risk it?” 

“Absolutely,” Isabelle said.   She didn’t mean to sound so eager, but Sawyer smiled. 

“All right,” Sawyer said.  “This way then.”

 

They walked along the water, then crossed a bridge and circled back.  

It was late September,  daylight sweating the last drops of summer.   The reddening trees scorched hot bursts of colour in their reflection on the cool lake.   A time of transition, vibrant in its autumnal death and birth.   It was beautiful and they stopped to admire the sight more than once. 

Sawyer crossed a log instead of a path and Isabelle scolded her recklessness.    Then Isabelle slipped and Sawyer laughed and scolded her choice of footwear. 

“Come on.”  She held out her hand.   “Up you go.”

Isabelle took her hand, the touch sending sparks through her bloodstream.  Sawyer pulled her upright so they stood toe-to-toe.   Isabelle squeezed her hand, not even trying to be subtle. 

“You all right?”  Sawyer asked.   Isabelle nodded.  “Is the dress okay?”  

“Hmm?”  Isabelle looked down.  “What?  Oh.  Sure.  It’s just a dress.” 

“Still.”  Sawyer let go of her hand.  “It’s nice.   Something like that shouldn’t be ruined in a place like this.”  She stepped around Isabelle, leaving Isabelle with a sense of anguish.   Her tone was so wretched.  Isabelle suspected it wasn’t about a dress.

Her words sunk in and anguish turned bitter. 

“I suppose that would by decision,” Isabelle said, marching past Sawyer.  

It drew Sawyer to a halt, her hands in her pockets.  Isabelle spun to look at her.   She felt indignant all of a sudden, but it fizzled with a glance.   Sawyer’s eyes were sweeping her over, the material of her shirt pulled taut across her chest.  Isabelle could see the slight but sure shape of her breasts, the way they rose when she breathed in.    Isabelle admired her good shoulders, her sturdy thighs.   Lean and sure and strong.

Isabelle dug her blunt nails into her palms. 

“Well,” she said.  “What do you have to say to that?” 

Sawyer took a step forward.  Isabelle wasn’t sure if she could hear the lake or if that rushing sound was all her blood diving south.  

“Don’t tempt me, Belle,” Sawyer said, her voice rougher than before.  Like yesterday at the car.

Isabelle felt a sudden pulse beneath her skirt, tight inside of her, and its intensity surprised her.  Wet evidence of desire seeped into her underthings.   She gathered the material of her skirt and almost snapped a garter belt to snap out of her haze.        

“You wouldn’t,” she said, but scarcely considered her words.  The haze hadn’t lifted.   This dialogue was nonsensical. 

Sawyer looked almost predatory, hands coming out of her pockets.   A familiar determination like when she chased Isabelle down a quiet street. 

That was a silly game.  This was not.  This was real.   Isabelle’s heart was in her throat.  Amorous yearning was a tenacious beast, licking her hollow so her muscles clenched tight around nothing.  Lamenting that nothingness. 

“Wouldn’t what?” Sawyer asked.  “ _Ruin_ you?”

The material of her dress was so fine, its softness against her skin was suddenly brutal.  Isabelle took a step back and steeled herself.   She was hard and resolute under soft fabric and skin. 

“You wouldn’t dare be cruel about it,” she said. 

“I wouldn’t?”  Sawyer stepped closer.  “You think you know that much about a woman you haven’t seen in eight years?”

If that was supposed to scare her, it didn’t work.  Isabelle tipped her chin up.

“I do,” she said, firm enough that Sawyer paused. 

“Really?” Sawyer said. 

“Yes.”  Isabelle trembled when a cold breeze swept through.  “Don’t _you_ know _me_?”

With the way Sawyer reacted, it was like Isabelle punched her in the stomach.   The guarded expression she so meticulously maintained completely crumbled.   It was like staring into the past, the same miserable face Isabelle saw her last night here.   Hurt to her core.   Aching. 

“You can’t do this,” Sawyer said, her voice shaking.  “You can’t decide you don’t want me then come running back here, expecting me to be waiting for you, once your little fairy tale breaks apart and it turns out your man is bad in bed.”

Like a slap.

“How dare you,” Isabelle shot back.  “You know it’s about more than that.  How can you even—”

A rumble of thunder moved overhead, as if the cosmic world narrowed in on their argument.   When the rain started falling, Sawyer strode past with a hard shoulder bump.   Isabelle heaved a frustrated sigh and went after her. 

“I was eighteen and scared!”  Isabelle shouted, following her down the path near the water.   They crossed the bridge to the dock.   “And you were trying to leave me!”

“For the night!”  Sawyer yelled back, spinning on her heel.   The rain came down hard, puncturing the lake like gunfire.   “Your parents good as wanted me dead and in case you failed to notice, I was just as scared as you were!” 

She knew Sawyer was right.   That night she was scared and she expected Sawyer to carry her fears on top of her own, because Sawyer was strong.  Sawyer never showed weakness the same way as Isabelle.   As a result, Isabelle sometimes forgot she had some. 

It wasn’t hard to forget now.   Her icy façade melted into the rain.  

 “I’m sorry!” Isabelle shouted.  “It wasn’t my choice to leave!  My parents packed us up the next morning and when I tried to find you, Joey said you were working a job.   But I tried, okay.   You never tried!”

“Never tried!”  Sawyer stepped closer again.  Fury radiated off her now.  Enough Isabelle was surprised she wasn’t steaming.   “How about all those letters you ignored?  How many times did I reach out to you and hear _nothing_ in return!” 

“Letters!”  Isabelle felt something exhilarating burn in her chest, something that pushed out the cold and the rain.  Anticipation built.   “What are you talking about?  What about _my_ letters?!”

“ _Your_ letters?”  Sawyer shook, from cold, from anger, from the same thing building inside Isabelle.  “What?”

Isabelle thought about her parents.  The kind of wealth that gave them everything— everything but an integral understanding of what encompassed love.    So it seemed, at least. 

_Was it possible?_   Could they have paid someone at the post to keep letters from reaching her?  To discard her letters addressed to this location?   Could her mother really listen to her crying herself to sleep, night after night, and let that carry on?

Sawyer seemed to come to the same realization as Isabelle.   She stumbled back like it struck her. 

“You thought I didn’t want you!”  Isabelle cried, her eyes stinging.   She must have been crying but couldn’t feel it in the rain.   “How could you think that?  You were _everything_ to me!  I thought you forgot about me!” 

“Forgot about you?”  Sawyer came closer again.  “I thought you hated me when you left!  And then I never heard from you again!   I just saw you in the papers—and then— that fucking engagement—” 

She slicked back her wet hair.  Isabelle was suddenly aware of Sawyer’s physicality, the wet clothes clinging to her body, the heaviness of breath, the passion in her stare.   The stinging in Isabelle’s eyes lessened.  She rubbed the make-up that must have smeared down her face.  Red lipstick rubbed across the back of her hand, her lips left bare and open.   

“I didn’t want to leave!”  Isabelle breathed in hard.  “Did you want me to leave?”

“Of course not!”  Sawyer exclaimed with a measure of desperation.  “I never wanted to lose you.”  She swept even closer and Isabelle’s knees almost gave out.   “I never want to lose you again.”

Isabelle opened her mouth to voice affirmation when Sawyer seized her— rough and uncareful, pulling Isabelle close and crushing a heated kiss to her mouth.   Isabelle grabbed her shirt, tugging the material so hard the top button ripped.    Sawyer slid a hand into her hair, soft nails raking pleasantly across her scalp as she cupped her head. 

Isabelle drank her down, lips open, licking at her mouth when she tried to separate. 

“ _Please_ ,” she rasped when Sawyer stepped back.  

Sawyer seemed to study her like she was the answer to every question.  Isabelle shivered, only partly from the cold.  Everything about Sawyer had gone hard, her shoulders, her posture, her expression.  Her feet stood apart, her chest heaving, the shape of it clear through her clothes.  Isabelle felt the dampness between her thighs, warmer than anywhere else. 

“Fuck,” Sawyer said, throaty and deep, squeezing Isabelle’s arms, up to her shoulders.   Isabelle melted under the touch. 

“Don’t stop touching me,” Isabelle said.  She would beg if she had to. 

She didn’t have to.  

Sawyer grabbed her again, hands heavy on her waist.  She picked her up like it was nothing, even though the wet dress weighed her down.   Isabelle threw her arms around her neck and wrapped her legs around her waist.   She sought Sawyer’s lips, sucked desperately at her bottom lip and licked into her mouth.   Messy, hot, hungry. 

Sawyer turned, carrying her to edge of the dock.   She kissed down her throat, blazing fire on her cool skin.   Isabelle kissed her face, down her jaw, to her chin.   She put Isabelle on the path and Isabelle turned.  

They held hands and ran through the rain.  

As they neared the side door,  Sawyer grabbed her from behind.   She rucked up her skirt and Isabelle almost fell on her face.   Her legs wobbled.    

“Belle,” Sawyer murmured, leaning in from behind, kissing her neck and shoulder.  Isabelle hummed in ardent bliss.   “You know how much I’ve been wanting you?”

“Yes,” Isabelle said, “As much as I want you.”  As proof, she grabbed one of Sawyer’s hands and lowered it between her legs.  She cupped Isabelle through her dress, right where she was hottest, enough to feel through the cool material.   Sawyer groaned, her next shoulder-kiss almost biting as she squeezed Isabelle.   Isabelle practically jumped. 

“Get inside,” Sawyer said, smacking around the door with her free hand until she found the handle.   She pushed the door open and let Isabelle go, long enough for them both to stumble inside.

Isabelle shoved her up against the door and Sawyer fell pliant under her touch.   They kissed until Isabelle was dizzy from it, until all the cold dripped away. 

“Make love to me,” Isabelle said, certain her tell-tale blush was blooming bright across her cheeks.   She didn’t care at all.   She wanted her to see it. 

Sawyer kissed her again, that tender slowness from so long ago.   She kissed like she was relishing in the taste of her, sweet and wet and rosy.  Isabelle sunk against the heat of her mouth.   

Her kisses moved lower, lower.  Down her neck and across her collarbone.  Isabelle undid the gold band at her waist, fumbling with the clasp.   Sawyer tugged open her shirt, throwing the wet fabric on the floor.   The gold band followed, shoes thunking off in haphazard directions. 

“You want this,” Sawyer said, like she didn’t believe it.  She backed Isabelle into the kitchen.

“I want this,” Isabelle said, kissing the newly exposed skin of Sawyer’s upper chest.   She touched her biceps, ran her fingers down her arms.  “Do you want me?”

“You know I do.”  Sawyer kissed her mouth again, fumbling with her own belt.  They bumped into the kitchen table.

“Then take me.”

x

 

If not for the sharp shoot of pain when she hit the edge of the table, Sawyer might have thought she was still dreaming.   Maybe the rain put her in a fog.   This was a revelation of fantasy, every hopeful desire of her younger self colliding with experience wrought by toil, suffering, and grace. 

She opened her belt, hastily sliding the leather free and tossing it onto the floor.  Isabelle, funny enough, always kept a cooler head when they really got going.   Sawyer could surprise her at the start, but it was Isabelle who took her for a ride. 

_Make love to me,_ had already made her wild. _Then take me,_ just about undid her composure entirely.     She intended to fulfill both requests with ardour.  

Wasting no time, she lifted Isabelle onto the table.   She searched for the zipper at the back of her dress, pushing a cluster of wet curls out of her way.   Isabelle tipped her head, distracting Sawyer with a fresh stretch of skin to kiss and suck.  

Isabelle was not shy under her.   Flushed pink with desire, but unabashedly.   She hummed and gasped and moaned at every little touch. 

Frustrated with the stuck zipper, Sawyer simply lowered her and flipped up her skirt.  She pressed her palm to the thin white lace under her skirt, finding its dampness warmer.   Her own body was in a similar state.   She rode her clit against the seam of her pants for some relief.  

“Sawyer,” Isabelle breathed, “ _Marilyn_.”

_Belle_.  Her best friend, her sweetest girl.  

Sawyer pushed the lace aside, leaning over her as she swept her fingers along her outer lips.  Isabelle bucked and Sawyer kissed her down, licking into her mouth like she wanted to do with her cunt.   She rubbed her slow, made her feel it, just barely dipped further in to gather wetness on her finger and circle back up. 

“You’re teasing me,” Isabelle whined against her lips, “You’re so mean these days.”

Sawyer laughed, removing her hand before she really did take her on the kitchen table.

“Not here,” she said, kissing down the wet dress.  It left very little to the imagination, but enough that it made Sawyer mad with want.   “Upstairs.  In bed.   Come on.”   She punctuated syllables with kisses then hoisted Isabelle up again.  

Isabelle rubbed against her, legs around her waist, and ran her hands down Sawyer’s chest.   Sawyer almost tripped in the hallway.   She slammed Isabelle against the wall a little rougher than she would have liked.   Isabelle didn’t seem to mind, rubbing and touching Sawyer’s breasts through her shirt.   Her nipples stayed hard under her fingers, Sawyer groaning and rutting against her.   She dug her fingers into the soft skin under her thighs. 

“Yes,” Isabelle said, meeting the thrust of her hips, “Right there.” 

Sawyer could have stayed there longer, but it would only frustrate her in the long run.   She needed Isabelle naked.   She needed her legs spread and every inch of her open.   She needed her mouth and hands and she needed to make them hers. 

The venture upstairs was a little messy.   She carried her halfway up then put her down, scared she would drop her.   They wound up climbing the stairs slowly, getting on their knees and kissing to distraction.   She finally got that fucking zipper open, turning Isabelle onto her front so she splayed over the steps.   She tugged down the zipper, parting the material, kissing up her spine. 

“Upstairs,” she managed to say.  She squeezed the plush bottom under her hands.  Isabelle squeaked. “Keep going.”

They made it to the bedroom eventually.   Sawyer threw her undershirt down the stairs and undid the pin in Isabelle’s hair.  Isabelle kissed slowly down her breasts, looking up as she kissed carefully around a puckered nipple. 

Sawyer strung her fingers through her hair, encouraging, sighing as Isabelle kissed her there, sucking the way she sometimes did her lower lip.  She took her fill of Sawyer’s breasts, kissing sweet and messy and in between.  When she flicked her eyes up to Sawyer, Sawyer got hot inside.   She almost pushed her onto her knees, down between her legs. 

Time for that later.   She wanted inside her. 

“Come here,” she said, holding Isabelle’s face and kissing her again.   Her lips were a raw pink.   Gorgeous. 

Isabelle sucked in deep breaths as Sawyer lowered her dress.   It slapped the floor in a wet heap and Sawyer stepped over it, nudging Isabelle toward the bed.   Her white bra was completely see through, her lace underwear slung low at her hips.  Her pale hose was hooked to garters and it made Sawyer swear.  When her legs hit the bed, Isabelle tumbled back. 

Sawyer smoothed her own wet hair back, swallowing hard as she stared down at Isabelle.   Isabelle sunk into the warm bed, crossing one leg over the other.  

“I liked sleeping here,” she said, “The bed smells like you.”  That beautiful blush inched over her skin again, dark on her face and bright on her chest and lower.   “I almost touched myself because of it.”

“Almost, huh,” Sawyer said, shivering, not from any lingering cold.  

Isabelle nodded, smiling.

“Almost,” she said. 

Sawyer unbuttoned her pants and knelt on the bed, never once breaking eye contact.  Isabelle’s heap of damp curls flowed underneath her, framing her head.   She breathed deeply.  When Sawyer touched her knee, she uncrossed her legs but pressed her thighs together.  Her knees touched.   Sawyer drew lazy lines up her leg to the clasp of her garter.   Sawyer unhooked it with a single flick and Isabelle’s breath caught. 

“I can do better than almost,” Sawyer said, speaking gently like she might spook her otherwise.  She curled her fingers under the top of the stocking, taking her time to drag it lower.   Goosebumps freckled in her wake.   She got the stocking down to her shin then ran her hand back up, under Isabelle’s knee.  

“Spread your legs,” Sawyer murmured.    

Isabelle made a little noise, endlessly full of them it seemed.   She obliged with the gentle request, parting her knees in slight.  

Sawyer reached between her legs, circled her inner thigh, then snapped the other garter strap.  Isabelle squeaked.

“Belle,” she said, and her eyes were bright like when she was young, full of life and character, “I said _spread your legs._ ” 

Isabelle did so, with a shaky breath opening her legs.  Sawyer moved between them, unhooking the second garter and rolling her stocking down.   She pulled one off, then the other, then hooked one knee over the crook of her arm.   She leaned down, pressing a wet kiss to the side of Isabelle’s knee, then moving up along her thigh. 

“Sawyer…  Marilyn…” Isabelle breathed, the name natural on her tongue.   It made Sawyer moan against her skin.    

“I want to put my mouth on you,” Sawyer said, kissing the bit of lace high above her thigh.  So close to where she wanted to be.   The sensitive juncture had Isabelle attempting to close her legs, Sawyer’s frame blocking them.   Isabelle made a guttural sound that left Sawyer tearing at the garter belt.  

“Can I do that, Belle?” she asked, almost slurring like a drunk woman.   She ripped the garter belt in two pieces and threw it behind her, then hooked her thumb in the white lace underwear.   “Can I put my mouth on you, please?” 

Isabelle nodded frantically then dropped her head back.   One hand grabbed the pillow above her, the other dove into Sawyer’s hair.   She let out a high-pitched cry as Sawyer kissed her open-mouthed above the lace. 

Like any good bout of intoxication, sensation overwhelmed Sawyer—touch, sight, sound, smell.  Taste.   Sawyer tugged the lace down Isabelle’s thighs.  She freed one leg but left the fabric dangling off the other. 

Sawyer moved between her thighs and put her mouth to work.   She rubbed herself against the bed whenever Isabelle tugged her hair, when a particular lick or suck made Isabelle keen, made wetness rush over Sawyer’s tongue.   She licked up inside her, the passage easy and slick, open with arousal.   Sawyer had never been with someone so utterly roused — nor could she remember ever feeling so hot. 

She reached her free hand between her own legs, squeezing and rubbing for a bit of relief.  She could tell Isabelle was close, so she sucked her clit and made her scream her name— every syllable.

Isabelle was still breathing heavy when Sawyer knelt upright, rubbing Isabelle’s inner thighs.   Her knuckles were battered from work, her palm calloused, while Isabelle’s skin grew softer and softer the higher she went. 

“That’s it,” Sawyer said, watching Isabelle’s eyes close and her mouth open as Sawyer eased two fingers inside her.  They slipped in easy after her previous ministrations.   The hot, wet passage only tightened once her fingers were there, greedy and wanting and holding.   “That’s it,” she repeated, sliding out and in again, “Sweetheart.  Belle.  Right inside you where I should be, huh?  Just me.  All for you.”

Isabelle spread her legs wider in reply.   If she went to speak, her words got tangled in her throat.   Her mouth stayed open but only wordless sound broke loose.  She eventually beckoned for Sawyer to move closer, and Sawyer obliged, her fingers moving faster inside her.  

Isabelle kissed her as she leaned down, humming low and sweet against her lips.  She opened her mouth, welcoming another deep kiss.   Both her arms flew around Sawyer’s neck.  Her nails scratched at her back when Sawyer found that untouched spot inside of her, massaging carefully. 

“What are you doing to me,” Isabelle said, but with a laugh and such joy that Sawyer almost laughed too.   She kissed her instead, rubbing her thumb over her clit and not stopping until Isabelle was curling into herself, coming and panting and crying out, “Too much!”.

Isabelle took a moment to catch her breath.   Then she was pushing Sawyer on her back and tugging down her pants. 

“Whoa,” Sawyer said, having scarcely blinked before her pants and underwear were around her knees.   Isabelle unclasped her own bra and threw it aside, then laid down on top of Sawyer so their bodies could touch while they kissed. 

Sawyer had clearly awakened a sleeping beast, because Isabelle was almost wild in her quickness.  She kissed hard and ran her hands all over Sawyer.  Sawyer was still struggling to kick her pants down her legs.   She surrendered when Isabelle slipped her hand down, parting the slick folds to reveal the swollen nub that was Sawyer’s clit.   Sawyer made a startled if not pleased noise, Isabelle stealing her breath with a kiss while rubbing quick circles below. 

“Belle,” Sawyer gasped, almost laughing at her eager frenzy, “You can— _ah_!— We’re not in a rush—!” 

Isabelle slowed, sliding her fingers down and up again.  Sawyer grabbed a fistful of curly hair.   She turned her knees out.   Her pants were tangled around her shins but she didn’t particularly care anymore. 

“Kiss me,” she told Isabelle.  “Slower.”

Isabelle did so, her fingers gliding through the wetness below.   Then she looked down, a glint in her eyes revealing some sudden inspiration.   Before Sawyer could question her, Isabelle threw a leg over her hips and situated herself on top of Sawyer. 

“Oh,” Sawyer said, when saw Isabelle lining herself up, “That doesn’t usually—”

She was about to say, _that doesn’t usually work_ —at least it hadn’t for her in the past—but Isabelle started rocking against her and Sawyer promptly lost all power of speech.   She fit her body perfectly against Sawyer, grinding her cunt against the swollen clit and leaving Sawyer a helpless victim of pleasure for the first time in—probably ever.   She usually took charge of these encounters, but she happily handed Isabelle the reigns this time. 

At least until the grinding went from tantalizing to frustrating, just enough to rile her up but not enough to tip over. 

“Belle,” she rasped, “Fingers.  Hand.  Please.”    

She needed more, though she was loathe to lose this view of Isabelle— naked and flushed a fucked-out pink, her nipples hard, her breasts soft, the curve of her belly and thighs quivering with exertion.   Sawyer ran her hands over her, pinched her peaked nipples so Isabelle shuddered.   Isabelle straddled her thigh instead, leaving a streak of wetness with each pass of her hips.   Sawyer kept one hand curled loose around her neck, holding her up, while the other guided Isabelle’s hand between Sawyer’s legs. 

“I don’t, um—”  Sawyer began when Isabelle slipped toward her opening.   She seized her fingers to stop.  “I don’t particularly like to—have anything—too deep inside me.” 

In the past, that confession was met with confusion and a few judgemental stares.   The only women who didn’t care were the women who preferred to be fucked without reciprocation anyway.   Sawyer didn’t fear true judgement from Isabelle, but she did momentarily fear scrutiny. 

But Isabelle lost some of her frenzy and smiled gracefully. 

“What _do_ you like?” she asked. 

Sawyer breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Just you,” she said.  “Just what you were doing.”

She showed Isabelle how she liked to be touched, Isabelle quickly learning how to sweep her fingers, to tease and satisfy until Sawyer was shaking and coming more vocally than ever before.   Her head hit the pillows and Isabelle trembled above her, another wet streak on her thigh telling Sawyer she came again.   She dragged out Sawyer’s own orgasm, softly rubbing until Sawyer had to close her legs.   She grabbed Isabelle around the waist, pulling her down, breathing hard.  

“That was fun,” Isabelle said, sweaty and red and kissing Sawyer’s cheek.   Sawyer couldn’t quite find her voice.   Isabelle threw an arm over her chest and a leg over her waist.   “We should do it again.” 

“Oh my god,” Sawyer finally said, laughing.  “I don’t think I can keep up with you.”

“You’ll have to practice,” Isabelle teased.  “We have a lot of time to make up for.”   She leaned over Sawyer and kissed her, sweet kisses that turned to messy giggles as they bumped noses and rubbed cheeks. 

Then Sawyer rolled Isabelle onto her back, situating herself comfortably on top.   She finally pushed her remaining clothes away.  Isabelle sighed happily when Sawyer kissed her neck.

“Can’t believe I’ve been missing this,” she said, prompting a laugh from Sawyer. 

“You’re here now,” Sawyer said.  “That’s what matters.”

For all their frivolity, the statement settled heavily.   They regarded one another for a moment, then Sawyer rolled onto her side and drew Isabelle into her arms.   Isabelle settled there, their bodies bare and pressed together as close as could be, her arms around Sawyer’s neck and her head settled in the crook of her neck.   Sawyer smoothed her curly hair.   The rain tapped at the window, a gentle knock from the outside world. 

“What’s next?”  Isabelle asked softly. 

Sawyer kissed the top of her head, then smiled. 

“Let me show you.”

 

X

 

Wrapped in a bedsheet—which was one article more than Sawyer deigned to don— Isabelle stood staring into another upstairs room. 

“When did you do this?” she asked, stepping carefully through.   She clutched the bedsheet so tight, her knuckles paled.   She shuffled slowly as if fearing the contents of the room might take flight like startled birds. 

“Over the years,” Sawyer said, leaning against the wall.   She crossed her arms across her naked chest.   Isabelle didn’t even wonder at her confident nudity; she was certain these walls bore far more naked vulnerability than Sawyer’s physical body.   “It was the last room I fixed up.   I didn’t know what do with it and, well, I guess I liked to torture myself—but you always said you would happy living in nothing more than a hovel so long as you had a music room.”

Isabelle did say that, one summer evening, sprawled on a blanket at the beach.   The ocean roared  with far more intensity than the whispering lake, but there was some solace in its harsh brutality.   They were alone with the wind and water, and neither natural power protested at their intimate embrace.   Sawyer held Isabelle close, Isabelle’s leg slung over her hips, her arms around her shoulders.   Sawyer brushed a damp curl from Isabelle’s forehead while they spoke.

Isabelle thought every word uttered that day had blown into the sea, but here she stood in the middle of a beautifully assembled music room.   It was decorated with a few paintings, a record player, a bookshelf of records and sheet music, and a piano under a great wide window.   Little bursts of sunlight peered through the clouds and curtains.   Isabelle breathed in deeply.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, releasing the bedsheet.   It was more careless than seductive, in truth.  The piano had stolen her attention.   The sheet fluttered to the floor and she stepped over it, vaguely registering Sawyer’s sharp intake of breath.   Pre-occupied with the fine instrument, Isabelle sat on the piano bench and touched a few keys. 

“Do you like it?”  Sawyer asked.

Isabelle played a melody.

“I love it.” 

She flowed in the music, sweet and romantic and breezy like a summer’s day, and only faltered when two careful hands swept through her hair.   Sawyer leaned over her, kissing her temple, down her jaw.   Isabelle giggled when her lips brushed her throat, catching a particularly ticklish spot.   The little melody turned messy then stopped altogether. 

“You’re very distracting,” Isabelle said, standing. 

Sawyer looked her over then lifted an eyebrow.

“ _I’m_ distracting?” she asked.

Isabelle pushed the bench aside then walked Sawyer backward to the window.   Sawyer fell against the windowsill, her slouched position putting her at height with Isabelle.  

“Yes,” Isabelle said, “You are.” 

 

They were wrapped in the bedsheet some time later, stretched on the floor, Sawyer insisting she wasn’t sleepy before falling asleep with her head on Isabelle’s chest.   Isabelle smiled down at her, then gazed around the music room. 

She anticipated the trial of oncoming days.   Ralph was an understanding man and she doubted he would be a problem.   She wondered about her parents, though.  She was certain her mother would manifest on the front porch sooner than later.    God only knew what would come of that encounter.   After that, it was hard to say.   Isabelle liked to brace herself, a habit of her shy nature.   Preparation meant protection from harm.   She seldom enjoyed living at the whim of fate. 

But then again— 

She looked down at Sawyer. 

“I’m awake,” Sawyer murmured, her eyes closed.  

Isabelle laughed. 

“Sure,” she said.  “I could put some music on to help with that.”

“No.”  Sawyer held her tighter.  “Stay right here.” 

Isabelle melted into their embrace, nodding. 

“I will,” she said. 

Isabelle had to admit, the best things in her life had taken her by surprise.   In the right company, she could improvise.   Even if she couldn’t trust the future, she could trust Sawyer, and that was enough.

So Isabelle kissed her forehead and said, “I’m gonna write you a song.”

“Hmm?”

“Yup.”  Isabelle smiled down at the sleepy glance Sawyer gave her.  “And I’m going to play it for you whenever we get crazy and do stupid things, like stop talking for a decade.”

“Wasn’t a decade,” Sawyer grumbled.  “And I’m not crazy.  You’re crazy.”

“We’ll see about that,” Isabelle said.  “I believe my song says differently.” 

Sawyer mumbled something nonsensical then drifted asleep, Isabelle’s fingers in her hair and a soft song on her lips.   She hummed, the gentle melody flowing through the small room.   Papers ruffled and the curtains fluttered.  

She closed her eyes and strummed her fingers over Sawyer’s back, playing her skin like a piano, and filling her with song. 

 

_epilogue._

 

The orderlies nicknamed her Queenie—something about her airs making her noble.    She had a contradictory countenance.   She spoke like a wealthy society belle, but lived her life as a music teacher, sharing house with a woman mechanic.   There was no indication of wealth there.  Not in a financial or social sense.   But the nickname stuck.   A playful joke.  

All this Miss Sawyer observed in her reading companion. 

Queenie licked her thumb and turned the notebook’s page.   A smile crinkled the aged lines on her face, made pretty by the warm expression. 

“ _‘Piano,’ admitted Isabelle shyly, ‘Just piano.  And I suppose a bit of singing.’_ ” 

She read the words easily.  So easily, Miss Sawyer wondered if she had memorized it.   She had no stories like that, she thought.   Stories etched so deep in the red of her heart, they could pass her lips as easily as blood from an open wound.  

Some lines seemed to affect Queenie that way, as if reading this story felt like that: like making an incision and watching it bleed.  

But she smiled when Miss Sawyer did, a sparkle of recognition in her eyes at this scene.

“Oh,” Miss Sawyer said, backlit with sunlight in the high-windowed reading room.   Her hair was a perfect white, combed flat.   Queenie always wore her blue-grey curls up.   “She plays the piano,” Miss Sawyer said.  “You know, I thought she would.”   She paused for a long moment.   “I think I enjoy the piano.  Though I can’t play, myself.”

“Oh, well!” Queenie exclaimed, “I can!  I’ll have to play you something, Miss Sawyer.” 

Miss Sawyer hesitated, but her stiff posture slackened.   She looked around for a moment, then looked up at Queenie.

“May I ask you something?” she asked.

“Of course.  Anything,” Queenie answered. 

“These girls,” Miss Sawyer said, “The girls in the story.  Miss Isabelle and Miss Sawyer…”

Queenie took a seat beside Miss Sawyer on the loveseat.

 “Well, you know,” Miss Sawyer was not the sort of character to withhold commentary, regardless of its scandalous nature, “Are they going to fall in love?” 

 “Yes,” Queenie laughed, though her voice went soft, “I believe they do.”   

“Incredible,” Miss Sawyer said, then smiled conspiratorially.   “I’m sure that will ruffle feathers.  I’m glad.  I like stories like this.”

“I’m sure you do, Miss Sawyer,” Queenie said, then held out her hand.   “Come on now, old lady.   To the piano.” 

 

x

  
Settled some time later near the public piano, Isabelle took a moment.  Sawyer watched her carefully.   Though years of memories bore heavily on her, heavy enough to sink out of sight, this time of day always offered a respite.   Isabelle looked at the woman beside her, flashed her most pristine Queenie smile, and began to play. 

For a moment, she could recall playing faster, when her fingers were nimble and the song was new.   She looked at Sawyer and saw a familiar face.  Forty, thirty, twenty years old.    The first time she played this song, fresh in her memory.   She was never quite sure if today would be the last time she played it. 

“Do you believe in love?”  Sawyer asked quietly, part way through the song.  Isabelle faltered when Sawyer added, “Miss Kingsley.”

She picked up the melody again, nodding. 

“I do,” she said.  “Most certainly.” 

“And what do you believe love is capable of?” 

Isabelle played a few notes and said, “I think our love can do anything we want it to.”

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
